


Stitch It Up

by blotsandcreases



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Gen, Post-Canon, a vision for the aftermath of the end of the series, but who is prince brandon's dad lol, fire vs ice and all that, like jon snow becomes an Other, maesters complicit in revisionist histories, marriages as best alliances, oral stories twisted through the ages, the White Walkers as a civilization, you know who...
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-31
Updated: 2016-07-31
Packaged: 2018-07-28 10:44:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7637083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blotsandcreases/pseuds/blotsandcreases
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the seventh year after the balancing of seasons, stories of the War of Five Kings and the Long Night are told.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stitch It Up

**Author's Note:**

> So one day, a friend who was a much longer fan of the books told me of a theory on the internet: that Jon Snow might become the next Night's King like the 13th Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, and that the Starks might have Other blood in them. It involved misunderstood stories, broken pacts, the Others building the Wall, and whatnot. Where do you people hang out and find these internet theories? But it's a cool theory, aligning with GRRM's bittersweet ending in mind, and here's a ficlet from that theory.

She was named after the Old Queen of Winter. 

The Old Queen was her grandfather’s mother, a woman who had wintry blue eyes and a pile of red hair in her youth. Maester Samwell was roughly of an age with the Old Queen, and he always told them that the Old Queen had lived her youth and a significant portion of her adulthood during a long night. The Old Queen had lived for so long and ruled the North for so long that her son had already died by sword still a prince.

“Prince Brandon was a brave man,” Maester Samwell always said.

“Is it true that he was born through the Queen’s magic? Her Grace stepped into one of Winterfell’s hot springs and worked ice magic and Prince Brandon was born.”

And Maester Samwell would always reply, his saggy cheeks wobbling with a smile, “Just so, Little Sansa. Prince Brandon was a true Stark. A true Prince of Winter. Stark-forged and Stark-born. And he looked just like you, Princess.”

Little Sansa always glowed with pride at that story, both for herself who was descended from magic and also for her brother who was also named Brandon. It was her favourite story even though there were many other stories: the Young Wolf who was the Old Queen’s brother, who Unknelt and who could transform into a direwolf and who was killed in a wedding; Mad Queen Cersei, who burned the Sept of Baelor and who defended the realm against dragons; Rhaegal the last dragon; Ice, the lost Stark greatsword; Good Queen Margaery, who was burned in the Sept but most beloved by the people; Missandei of Many Tongues whose tongues twisted and whose tears froze before they could fall; Brienne the Beauty, a brave knight and loyal sworn shield, whose beauty was so renown that she had to fight a lot of men; Lyanna the Great Bear, who led the enemy Ironborn deep into the snow and fed them to bears; the Night’s King, who was a long-ago Stark but now nameless and now a consort to the Land of Always Winter; the first Spring, which rippled across Westeros seven years ago, when Little Sansa was only a year old.

Little Sansa heard these stories between lessons with Maester Samwell, when she could stretch her legs and they could eat crumpets. She also heard them before bed from Father, who heard them from the maester and even from the Old Queen.

If she could, Little Sansa would listen to the stories all day. But she had lessons. So many lessons, so many things to keep in mind.

She had to stitch adequately because she should learn how to clothe herself if need be.

She should relax her bow arm.

Their words were “Winter is coming.” It was a reminder to endure, and a warning to their enemies.

There should always be a Stark in Winterfell.

A people who are strange in custom and appearance should never be deemed other and savages.

Never go beyond the Wall, alone or with an army or with the South’s last dragon.

She should honor pacts and oaths.

Little Sansa was hiding from her septa now. She had come from her archery lessons so that she could have her sewing lessons, but Little Sansa wished to rest today. They were making buttered crumpets and applecakes in the kitchen when she sneaked into the kitchen this morning for another cup of milk before archery, and she wished she could stop her lessons for a while and eat platters upon platters of crumpets and applecakes.

“Are you hiding, my dear?”

Little Sansa jumped. She peered past the stone direwolf. Across the corridor, the Old Queen sat tucked in an alcove.

Little Sansa sighed and squirmed out of her hiding place. She approached the Old Queen. The Old Queen’s hair was white as snow now, and her face was lined and wintry. But when she smiled at Little Sansa, it was like spring blooming. Little Sansa realised that the Old Queen must have been beautiful years ago, and tall. Right now Her Grace had a dignified handsomeness about her, a beauty of a faded old gown, and stooped shoulders.

Little Sansa also realised that she was embarrassingly filthy next to the Old Queen’s impeccable grey velvet gown. Little Sansa discreetly wiped her hands on her breeches.

“I should be in lessons, Your Grace.”

“So you should,” the Old Queen said, still smiling. Little Sansa breathed easier. “What lessons are you hiding from?”

Little Sansa bit her lip. Would the Old Queen immediately summon for Septa Aregelle and have Little Sansa removed? “Sewing, Your Grace, and history.”

“Don’t you like sewing and history?” the Old Queen said, still with a smile. Then she added, “Come and sit, my love.”

Little Sansa was careful not to dirty the Old Queen’s skirt as she sat.

“I like sewing and history,” Little Sansa said, eyeing the richly embroidered direwolf on the Old Queen’s gown. “But they’re making crumpets and applecakes in the kitchen, and I’m distracted. I wish I could gobble up all pastries.”

“Ah, my love,” the Old Queen said, and tucked away the stray dark hair from Little Sansa’s face. “Do you know the story of Hideous Walder?”

“I love stories!” Little Sansa drew closer and the Old Queen put her arm around Little Sansa’s shoulder. The Old Queen smelled of winter roses, and did not seem to mind Little Sansa’s sweaty and dirty woolen clothes.

“Well,” the Old Queen said, “Hideous Walder did something that he shouldn’t have. Do you know of the guest right, my love?”

“Yes, Your Grace,” Little Sansa chirped. It was under her pacts and oaths lessons. “No harm should come upon those guests and messengers under one’s roof.”

“That’s correct. And Hideous Walder violated it. Harm came upon those under his roof. He did something he shouldn’t have.”

Little Sansa refused to shiver. She knew from Maester Samwell that one of those harmed under Hideous Walder’s roof was the Young Wolf, the Old Queen’s brother. It must have broken the Old Queen’s heart.

“And Hideous Walder’s favourite food was pie,” the Old Queen continued, in a solemn voice. “But he did something he shouldn’t have, so one day his pie got cursed. The Bloody Wolf baked his sons into a pie and fed them to him. He only found out after he enjoyed the pie.”

Little Sansa shivered and huddled closer.

“You shouldn’t hide from lessons, my love,” the Old Queen said. “Your crumpets and applecakes might be cursed then.”

“They might taste bad?”

“They might,” the Old Queen agreed. “They might be made from rotten apples, with worms.”

Little Sansa grimaced. “That’s disgusting.”

The Old Queen rubbed Little Sansa’s shoulder, and they were quiet for several heartbeats.

“Did it scare you?”

Little Sansa nodded. “Yes, but I love scary stories. I love stories, Your Grace.”

The Old Queen laughed. “I have many stories. And songs as well.”

Little Sansa could believe that. The Old Queen was one of the oldest people in Winterfell. “Do you still remember the songs you heard as a child, Your Grace?”

The Old Queen’s smile dimmed. She pressed her lips on Little Sansa’s forehead before saying, “The songs of my childhood were quite different. I was born during a long summer, you see. I don’t love those songs as much nowadays.”

“Oh. Well, I would still like to hear stories from Your Grace.”

“Very well, my little Sansa.” The Old Queen’s soft smile returned. “But promise me to apologise to Septa Aregelle and Maester Samwell for missing lessons, and to never do it again without permission.”

“I promise,” Little Sansa said, as earnestly as she could. “I promise. I’d like to enjoy my pastries.”

“Oh, my love, you are amusing,” the Old Queen said, laughing her frail, dainty laugh. “Now, how about the story of a girl who loved to sew, like you?”

“Yes, please,” Little Sansa said, clapping her hands. She dug her chin on her twined fingers and added, “And Brienne the Beauty and the Red Wolf after.”

“Of course,” the Old Queen said. “But first, the girl who loved to sew.” The Old Queen took one of Little Sansa’s hands in hers and began, “Once there was a girl who loved to sew. She sew because sewing is both to create and to fix. The girl stitched everything: her clothes, and her dolls, and stories.”

_fin_

**Author's Note:**

> When not scrambling for coursework deadlines or daydreaming about fics I'm short on time to write, I'm over at blotsandcreases.tumblr.com sighing happily at all the great things. :)


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